Falling Angel
by Nils Jansen
Summary: An origin story about Peter Weyland's idealism, and its cost to his soul.


**Residence of Dr. Victoria Regina Weyland and Albert Frederic Weyland**  
**Mumbai, Maharashtra, India**  
**11 September 2001, 6:00 P.M.**

After having brought out dinner to his employers several minutes earlier, Dayada Chandrasegarampillai stiffly, and perhaps a bit nervously (although he would deny it), surveyed the dining area of the Weyland residence. He occasionally glanced at the two figures of his employers, dwarfed by the long dining table that could accommodate up to 30 guests. Sitting quietly near their slowly-cooling nightly dinner, Victoria and Albert Weyland anticipated the delayed arrival their scientifically precocious 10-year-old son Peter.

Peter would always run a few minutes late, wrapping up various projects, upon which he would resume work immediately after dinner. His parents typically indulged this behaviour, believing that Peter's interests would someday pay off. While Victoria felt sympathetic towards Peter's enthusiasm, Albert understood this inclination even more deeply. Without a formal education, Albert had become a specialist in materials engineering. Victoria seemed his polar opposite; formally graduated from Oxford, with a focus on the humanities.

* * *

Almost exactly fifteen years prior ("29 August 1986," Albert would dutifully recall without fail, whenever prompted), Albert Weyland met Victoria Adler at a subdued cocktail party in London. He impressed her with his ambition and intelligence, combined with raw talent in his field. Victoria wanted to keep from becoming too immersed in academia, making Albert seem all the more attractive to her. He felt drawn to her interest in comparative mythology, intrigued by what he perceived to be the "primal" nature of her interests, as well as her tendency to shy away from the artificiality of modern life. Despite the venue, Victoria eschewed make-up as usual that night. This drew Albert all the more to the untouched natural beauty of her pale skin, which contrasted compellingly with her warm brown eyes and dark, wavy shoulder-length hair. In some ways, Victoria inspired him to consider using more natural materials for his inventions, and with minimal environmental impact.

Marriage came two years later, diligently on the anniversary of their initial meeting. On 1 October 1990, Victoria gave birth to Peter. Since Victoria was already in her mid-30s and had some pre-existing fertility concerns, both she and her husband felt relieved to have had a child. "Before her biological clock ticked out," as Albert typically phrased it.

* * *

"I don't understand it," Albert said. "He's usually good with finding a stopping point on his projects. It's been 15 minutes."

"I hope nothing's wrong. Do you know if he's doing something with chemicals? If so, he shouldn't be doing that in his bedroom. He should be in the lab."

"Of course he isn't. And, he's very mindful of the time I need in there. But recently, I've no idea what he's been doing." Albert shook his head slowly. "He's become more vague about things. He used to share more with me."

"Peter's going to be 11 next month, you know. He'll be undergoing many changes very soon." Victoria paused. "It's times like this when I wonder if perhaps some common societal rituals in our day and age would do some good." Smiling wryly, she added, "So much for my radical feminist leanings from university days. Were the seventies really that long ago?"

"The time we got dinner seems that long ago." Turning to Dayada, who watched the proceedings with apparent coolness, Albert addressed him by the semi-Anglicized homonym used in place of his given name. "David?"

"Yes, sir?" he asked, with a well-studied English accent that mostly masked the remnants of his Indian accent.

"Please check on Peter once again. Tell him we can't wait any longer for dinner."

"Of course, sir."

As Dayada approached the door to Peter's room, two noises started to become apparent. One was of the small television atop his mahogany dresser, which he sometimes had on in the background while working on his projects. Typically, Peter had it tuned into the news, because he also wanted to remain aware of anything important (or seemingly so) in the broader world. Based on the patterns of the voices, Dayada assessed that Peter had it on BBC World.

While the news did not seem too unusual, Dayada had never before heard the other noise. A kind of heavy breathing, broken by gasps, probably muffled by the sheets on Peter's bed. Sensing distress, he moved more swiftly to Peter's door and knocked a bit harder than the previous time. "Peter?" he asked with apparent calm to mask his growing concern. "Are you alright?"

A broken child's voice came through the door, almost as a whisper. "David?"

"May I come in, Peter? Is something the matter?"

"Yes," Peter gasped.

Dayada opened the door quickly, finding Peter laying on his stomach on the bed. His small wire-rimmed glasses lay on the nearby dresser, and his eyes appeared reddened from tears that continued to flow down his cheeks.

"Oh my!" Dayada exclaimed, rushing over to the bed. "What happened?"

Peter pointed at the television, abandoning his tendency to say everything in complete sentences. "The World Trade Center. Two planes. Crashed."

Standing next to the bed, Dayada turned to see what was happening. Both he and Peter watched the live broadcast, smoke billowing from the two towers on what had begun as a clear, bright, perfect Tuesday morning in New York City. "How horrible. I can only imagine the loss of life."

"I'm not sure how they could put out a fire like that," Peter commented, his analytical tendencies still managing to come through, despite his unusual display of profound shock, sadness, and tears. "They're sending in fire and rescue crews, though I don't know what they can do. Nothing like this has happened before, so they don't have the equipment to do much. There are also reports that some people from the upper floors are jumping to their deaths."

"It is unimaginable. Certainly a disaster on this kind of scale."

"They were saying sabotage, too. That someone planned this. Possibly Islamic militants."

Dayada nodded, his mind going back to the horrific stories his grandfather had told about the partition of India and Pakistan in 1947.

"They tried to bomb the World Trade Center eight years ago," Peter continued.

"Of course, this does not make all Muslims bad people," Dayada said with some strain, a carryover of his internal fight against the unrelenting prejudice instilled in him by his grandfather. "Every religion has its fringe elements, and a propensity for unnecessary violence."

Peter furrowed his eyebrows. "And this is just another example of it." In his young schoolboy voice, he incongruously growled with sarcasm, "'Love thy neighbour as thyself.'" For punctuation, he added, "As long as your neighbour believes as you do."

"But don't you think that it is a worthwhile idea, regardless of what you believe."

"I can't do that, David. Not when you have something like _this_ happen." Peter gestured at the television, still showing the burning twin towers. "Planned acts of cruelty against others, just living their lives. If I could, I would get rid of all religion. What need do we have for it when it makes people kill each other? What kind of god or gods allows things like this to happen?"

"We are told the ways of the divine are mysterious. Whatever you believe."

"We need to have control over our own lives. To make the world a better place."

Both Peter and Dayada turned to the door as they heard a pair of footsteps get closer to the room. Within a few moments, they saw Victoria and Albert appear in the doorway.

"Peter," Albert started in an unusually harsh tone, "what in the devil…"

Victoria tapped Albert's arm and pointed at the television. "_Oh my God_," she gasped, clutching his arm.

Albert wrapped his other arm around Victoria. Changing his tone to indicate some level of understanding, he asked Peter, "Is this why you were late for dinner?"

"Yes, Father," he replied, reaching for his glasses and putting them on as he got up from his bed.. Peter felt thankful as well that his tears had stopped, giving way to newly emerging feelings of anger about the state of a world beholden to organized religion.

Albert turned to Dayada. "David."

"Yes, sir."

"Could you please have our dinner kept warm? We'll be down in a few minutes."

"Of course, sir." Before leaving the room, Dayada turned to Peter and looked sympathetically at him. "I'm very sorry for what has happened."

"There's no need to apologize, David." Peter replied. "No one should apologize for anything that isn't their fault. It's the fault of others in this world who believe in something they can't see, and not in themselves."


End file.
